Ship Of Dreams
by rayychel infinity
Summary: Forever The Sickest Kids: Jonathan/Kyle. Set on the Titanic. Kyle's from a wealthy family, Jonathan's not. Romance and turmoil follow their meeting on sailing day until the ship begins to sink that fateful Sunday night.
1. There She Is, Towering High

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing and no one. I can't believe I'm writing this. It's just a little something to tide me over during my period of writer's block on _Differences_, and it's probably only going to be four to six chapters at the most. I'm awful with the dialogue of the period and am only going by what I've heard from period-piece films and the books on the _Titanic_ that I've read. Reviews would be lovely :) Any typos are of my fault and I apologize. I wrote this at 2AM. Title taken from what people of that time called the _Titanic_ and from _There She Is_, from the wonderful musical by Maury Yeston.

* * *

When Kyle's car pulls up to the dock he has to crane his neck to see the top of the four smokestacks. A small flock of seagulls circles around the black tip of the one closest to him, the wind skittering around white puffs of clouds in the endlessly blue sky. With a huff he collapses back into his seat, closing his eyes.

The tension in the car is thick and unbearable; his parents sit on opposite seats, looking everywhere but each other. Kyle wants to scream, tell his parents _you used to love each other, what happened?_ but his mother had instilled in both him and his sister that such outbursts were not socially acceptable.

Morgan, his sister, sits next to their father, looking every bit as prim and proper as the Burns family should be and every bit the clone of their mother. Kyle resists the urge to roll his eyes; they were teenagers, just _kids_. Rebellion was expected of them, no matter how much money their parents had.

What did it matter, anyway? They were going back to America so their parents could get a proper, quiet divorce. Kyle planned on moving as far away as he possibly could once the papers were signed and the lawyers were bribed into silence. He'd miss Morgan, but dealing with the craziness that was his family was exhausting.

The door on Kyle's side opens and the brunet looks out to see their butler holding it open for him. Kyle restrains himself enough not to jump out, legs cramped from the long drive, and once his feet are firmly on the cobblestones of the street he can't help but be surprised at the sheer _size_ of the ship. It towers over any other ship currently docked and any building along the waterfront. Kyle hates to admit it, but he's impressed and maybe a little excited to be on her maiden voyage.

Behind him his mother delicately steps out. Kyle can hear her talking to their butler before he goes to the trunk to unload their bags. Morgan strides over to him, her gaze following him to the length of the ship. "Marvelous, isn't it?"

Kyle makes a noise of agreement. "Astonishing." He watches a few of the crew start loading the expanse of boxes and bags into the hull of the ship. Above their heads a crane brings a Renault town carriage motor car into a precarious high-altitude dance before lowering it safely to the dock, red paint gleaming in the early-morning sun.

The atmosphere is optimistic and bustling, well-wishers and on-lookers gabbing and motioning with wild gestures. All the wealthiest ladies in their finest wear stand close to their finely-dressed husbands, steamer trunks surrounding them like small armies. Men and women in standard sailing uniform gather up parcels and bags, carrying them along the loading dock. Camera bulbs flash as newspaper reporters stand close by; ready to capture the moment the _Titanic_ is set free.

Morgan turns to look at him, brown curls swept off one side of her face; eyes shadowed by the voluminous hat perched atop her hair. She looks gorgeous and Kyle feels a sudden surge of pride for his sister. No doubt she would find a future husband on board this magnificent liner. "You're not excited to go back, are you?"

Kyle makes and minutely shakes his head. "Not in the least. It's going to be hell when we get back, you know that, right?"

"It is. But Mother and Father love us all the same."

Kyle runs a hand through his own brown hair instead of answering. He knows their parents love them, but couldn't they love them _together? _Granted that Kyle may be twenty-four but the need for parental love doesn't age.

Their mother steps up next to Kyle and gently places a gloved hand on the shoulder pad of his suit. Kyle doesn't look over at her before asking, "Where's Father?"

She sighs, and when Kyle sneaks a glance over at her, her lips are pursed, eyes steely as she too takes in the girth of the ship. "Bill has gone to have a word with the Captain." She pauses. "It really is a beauty, isn't it?"

Kyle wishes that they could talk about _something_ other than the _Titanic_. He wishes he could be like some of the poorer passengers in their normal garb, talking freely and laughing loudly, children exclaiming excitedly and running around while their parents waited to board. He wants his mother to have laugh lines, not frown lines.

But that was something that would never happen to Kyle, no matter how much he wished. Instead he agrees with his mother and steels himself for what would surely be a long wait to board.

* * *

The close call with the _New York_ as the _Titanic_ prepared to leave the harbor should have been the first sign. The sheer size and pull of the White Star Line's newest vessel had caused the bearings holding the _New York_ to its dock to snap and break loose, causing the smaller ship to intercept the _Titanic_'s sailing path. Danger was narrowly avoided as the _Titanic_ turned and the _New York_ was safely pulled back.

It was such a glorious day, and after the averted crisis passengers began proclaiming the _Titanic_'s unsinkable reputation with a renewed fervor. Kyle, who had been watching anxiously from the space outside their first-class stateroom, felt an ominous shiver that passed along his spine. He blamed it on the wind.

"Kyle, honey, you know I hate it when you wear your hair like that," his mother says.

Kyle rolls his eyes and grips onto the freshly-painted railing, smooth metal cold under his palms. "Even if I fixed it the wind would mess it up, and seeing as how I do not intend to spend our entire trip locked in the stateroom I feel no need to fix my hair. Besides, I think it looks atrocious slicked back and you know it."

His mother sighs and pulls her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Kyle turns to face her and feels a spark of warmth in the pit of his stomach when he sees a faint, amused smile on his mother's face. "You always were incorrigible," she replies.

Kyle grins crookedly and presses his back against the railing, shoving his hands into the pockets on his trousers. "I pride myself on my incorrigibility." He looks out at the expanse of water spread around them, the breeze of salt-tinged air caressing his cheeks while he listens to the splash of waves against the ship. Land is only a faint spot behind them, almost lost on the horizon.

"Where's Morgan?" Kyle eventually asks.

"The library, I believe. I hear there are some fantastic books aboard."

"Mother, are you trying to get me to read?" Kyle asks dryly, moving to make way as an older gentleman strides past them. His mother smiles, the gesture accenting the crow's feet gathering at the corner of her equally-as-blue eyes. "I would never try to get you to do such a thing. You and I both know your life lies within your father's company."

As quick as it came Kyle's good mood fades, like the last specks of England as they sail on. "Mother," he starts dangerously, knowing he's going to regret using this tone later. "You know I do not wish to be a part of Father's company. My fate lies in California, not the oil wells of Texas."

"There's not much of a choice," she says, voice just as dangerously even. "Morgan cannot take over for Bill when he retires now can she?"

"Don't make this about her," Kyle says, fists clenching inside his pockets. A few more people stroll by, unaware of the animosity crackling between the two. "She has a free pass and we both know it. All she has to do is find a wealthy man and she's free to live her own life full of maids and ridiculous dinners."

"This life is far from ridiculous," his mother says sharply, taking a step toward him. Kyle steps back, teeth gritted. "People _dream_ to have what we have. Working men _strive_ to afford our luxuries. We are the best of the best, Kyle. If you left this life you would regret it."

Kyle's eyes flash. "That's what you think," he spits before turning on his heel. He hears his mother calling out for him but he can barely hear it over the cacophonous noise of the roaring of the sea and the roaring in his ears.

* * *

How Kyle finds himself on the third-class deck he doesn't know. He leans against the railing, closing his eyes against the sting of the wind and the sting of angry tears. He's an adult; he shouldn't be getting so worked up about things like this.

Truth be told, Kyle wishes he lived a simpler life where he didn't have to wear suits of tuxedos every day of his life. Where he could be free to enjoy himself however he pleased. His mother was always harping on him to find a nice girl, a wife, when Kyle didn't _want_ that.

He peers down into the water, watching the stream of foam that trails along in the ship's wake before disappearing completely into the blue abyss. Out here it's peaceful, far away from the jaunty celebrations of the third-class and close enough to the edge that only a few brave men would wander close, girlfriends staying in the safety of the middle of the deck.

Kyle runs a hand over his face. He's had this argument with his mother thousands of times, and it never changes, no matter how much Kyle argues his extremely valid case. It's a new world and Kyle's itching to explore it, to get his feet wet in anything that interests him.

The cinema is his real calling, not being the heir to an oil fortune. The beaches and climate of the West Coast are where he should be, not in some stuffy mansion in Dallas, sweltering in the summers.

"You look extremely out of place," a voice says, raised in volume to be heard over the wind. Kyle lifts his head, startled, and is met with the sight of a shorter man, another brunet with hair closer to black. Kyle raises an eyebrow and turns around, stepping away from the railing. He wants to have a snippy comeback, as is his custom, but he can only give the truthful reply. "I don't feel it."

Now it's the other man's turn to raise an eyebrow skeptically. "Shouldn't you be up in your _stateroom_?" He says the word with the disdain Kyle normally reserves when talking business matters with his father. He definitely admires this man's spirit and brashness.

"Shouldn't you be drinking ale with your drunken friends?" Kyle shoots back. To his surprise the man laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners, smile revealing nearly perfect teeth. Kyle sucks in a breath. His retort was merely out of instinct; this guy had the same Southern drawl Kyle's father had. The only ale he'd be drinking would presumably be cheap Texan beer.

The man fixes his tattered brown jacket. "You're Kyle Burns," he says.

"Indeed," Kyle replies, smirking. "And you are…" He pauses. "Let me guess, from Texas?"

"Dallas, actually."

"Ah, so that explains it. The Burns family is only famous in good old Texas."

The man grins. "Not as famous as the Astors yet, are we?"

Kyle grimaces. "God, I should hope not."

The man extends a hand, which Kyle gladly shakes. "Jonathan Cook. I'm being forced to return back to America by my mother. I found London much more enjoyable and free."

"You could always get off at Cherbourg or in Ireland. I'm sure they're much more enjoyable. I personally would rather be stuck there instead of returning home," Kyle says as he shakes Jonathan's hand.

Jonathan looks genuinely surprised as he steps back. "I don't think I've ever met anyone who doesn't want to be wealthy before. I moved to London in the hopes of gaining some personal wealth," he confesses, looking a little ashamed.

Kyle shrugs and looks up at a smokestack. The sun is beginning to set, rays painting the sky in different shades of orange and pink. "It's not as wonderful as it may seem. At least you're free to pursue your dreams," he says bitterly.

"And you're not?"

Kyle laughs humorlessly. "No way." He isn't sure why he's unloading on this stranger—a _third-class passenger_, nonetheless; his mother would be furious—but it feels good to finally have someone who won't judge him because of his own personal dreams. It may only be 1912 but times were changing and everyone knew it. Kyle wanted to take advantage of every second.

"Not interested in taking on the family business?" Jonathan asks and sits on a bench, patting the seat next to him. Kyle takes the invitation and sits down wearily, resting his elbows on his thighs as he stares at the dark grain of the wood flooring.

"It's not where my heart is," he says after a pregnant pause. Jonathan nods and stares at the sky. They're both silent until the horn blares, signaling dinner. Kyle sighs and stands up, running his hands through his hair in a futile attempt to fix it. He turns to Jonathan and sticks out his hand. "Nice meeting you, Jonathan."

"Likewise," Jonathan replies, shaking Kyle's hand. They both stare at each other awkwardly before Kyle clears his throat, saying, "I'd better go. It'll take me a bit to reach the first-class dining room and Mother hates it when I'm late." He flashes an awkward smile before departing.

It was too bad that gender and class separated them both.


	2. Broad And Grand, Ship Of Dreams

Dinner is, unfortunately, everything that Kyle expected. He stares at the unappetizing dollop of caviar spooned onto his plate and only reaches for the outer fork when his mother subtly elbows him under the table. Kyle doesn't give her a withering glare only because even he knows the importance of having the ship's builder at their table.

The first class dining room is sheathed in elegance, from the floors to the impeccably carved wooden paneling lining the walls. Conversation here isn't loud, words instead dulled to a hushed murmur laced with the delicate clinking of silverware on china dishes.

Kyle wraps his fingers around the stem of his crystal glass and raises it to his lips, taking a hearty sip of the bubbly champagne. It's not really his first choice of alcohol, but right now all he cares about is the alcohol content, as crass as that may sound. If he has to hear Morgan giggle one more time at the constant wooing of the millionaire currently trying to win her over he'll personally jump off the ship and swim back to England.

On his right his mother gossips with an older woman about the scandal of John Jacob Astor's marriage. "I mean, _seven months_ and they're just now coming back to America. I'm almost surprised that they decided to have their homecoming be on such a publicized trip."

"Flaunting their wealth," the older woman says as she tugs her glove up a bit further on her arm.

Kyle rolls his eyes and looks down at his plate. _Everyone_ in this class was flaunting their wealth, his mother included, if the way she was wearing all her finest jewelry was any indication. Of all the things his mother excelled at, hypocrisy was at the top of the list.

Morgan catches his eye, mouths _are you okay_ and before her lips have even stopped moving Kyle grimaces and shakes his head, fingers drumming impatiently on his napkin-covered thigh. Their parents are now locked in what seems to be a rather intense conversation with Thomas Andrews and Kyle really, really wants to leave and escape to the relative safety of their stateroom.

He looks down at his plate with a sigh, noticing that he's barely touched his entrée. Dessert hasn't even been served yet and from what he can deduce it won't be served for awhile, which means he'll be stuck in this stupid, albeit comfortable, chair, surrounded by stuffy millionaires and too many different kinds of silverware for a long time.

If there was a hell, Kyle's found it.

"And Kyle here is very excited to be taking over for his father when he retires," his mother's voice says, cutting into his thoughts. Kyle looks up, surprised to be dragged into the conversation, and has no choice but to smile politely and say, "Yes, terribly excited. Oil has always been my calling, you know?"

His father laughs heartily, clapping Kyle on the shoulder. The brunet winces slightly and squares his shoulders, forcing his smile to stay on his face. "That's my boy, a typical Burns through and through." The others laugh and Kyle fakes one as he reaches for his wineglass and takes a long swallow as the band starts to play ragtime.

* * *

Kyle finds temporary solace in the library. Though he may not read as often as his mother or his sister, he's always found himself partial to the atmosphere of libraries: the silence, the smell of old books, the serene sense of peace that always covered everything like a blanket.

He sits down at an elegantly carved desk and gently touches the White Star Line stationary placed in the upper right hand corner. He may have slipped out of dinner undetected once he forced down most of dessert, but he knows the storm is far from over. No doubt his mother noticed right away, and no doubt she was furiously tracking him down at this very moment.

With a smug smile he leans back in the chair. She'll never look here. Most first-class passengers headed out to the decks, or in the men's case the smoke room, after dinner. The only other soul occupying the lavishly decorated and furnished library was a boy who looked only a trifle younger than Kyle himself.

His mother wasn't lying when she said the selection of books aboard was fantastic; there were towering bookshelves stocked with hardbacks. It was almost a pity that this room seemed to be almost unused. Kyle gets up, walking over to one of the shelves to run his fingers across the bindings.

Sliding a book from its row, Kyle turns it over, studying the cover. "Far from the Madding Crowd" by Thomas Hardy. Surely something that would interest Morgan, or perhaps even his mother. He flips disinterestedly through the first few pages before closing it and placing it back into its slot on the shelf.

The name on the binding of the book next to it catches Kyle's attention. He takes that one out with more curiosity than the first book. "Futility, or the Wreck of the _Titan_" by Morgan Robertson. This one is considerably shorter, and briefly Kyle recalls Morgan talking about some type of story called a novella or something similar.

The _Titan_ is what catches Kyle's attention, however. He knows, of course, that Titan is a common name, and this ship and its fate have nothing to do at all with the _Titanic_, but he still can't shake the sudden feeling of unease that's settled over him. This time he can't bring himself to open the book before putting it back on the shelf. Call him superstitious.

His mind briefly flickers to that steerage boy—Jonathan. Something intrigued Kyle about the boy, though he wasn't sure what. Most third- and second-class passengers admired the first-class passengers from afar, knowing their ranks and how the social system worked out. Jonathan didn't, and maybe Kyle admired him for that.

It most certainly didn't have anything to do with the fact that Kyle preferred men to women. Sure, Jonathan was attractive, anyone in their right mind would notice that, but there's also the fact that Kyle's already braced himself for a tedious life married to some rich girl, wishing times were different. Telling his family was out of the question.

Still, Kyle wants to see Jonathan again, as crazy as it sounds. Sneaking off would be next to impossible, and from what he gathered at the insufferable dinner ordeal, he was expected in the first-class smoking room for brandies at nine. Sighing, Kyle exits the library and steps out from the inner corridors onto the deck of the ship.

In the distance the sun is setting, a reddish-gold ball of light hovering on the navy horizon of ocean. Stars begin to speckle the sky, and Kyle leans against the railing, gazing upwards as the _Titanic_ sails across the sea. He doesn't hear his sister step up beside him until she speaks.

"You really need to sort out those thoughts in your head," she says by way of greeting. Kyle rolls his eyes. "Really, Kyle. You're testing Mother's patience and you know how much she hates that."

"What doesn't she hate?" Kyle snaps.

Morgan purses her lips. "Why don't you enjoy any of this?"

He turns to her, eyes narrowed and arms firmly crossed over his chest. "You aren't an heir to a company you don't want to own. All you have to do is find some nice rich man to marry and you're set." His voice rises in volume before gradually lowering, as if tired.

Morgan coolly observes him, hand daintily resting on her hip. "You're not telling me everything," she says after a few minutes of uncomfortable scrutiny. Kyle wrings his hands together before shoving them into the pockets on his suit jacket. "No idea what you're talking about," he replies.

"I believe you do." Morgan sighs. "But I know you're never going to tell me so I won't pry."

Kyle feels an immense amount of guilt at hiding such a big secret from his sister, the only one in the entire family that understood his actions and intentions. "Please, don't tell Mother where I'm going," he says, leaning in.

"What do you mean?" Morgan looks confused, brow crinkled.

"It's best if you didn't know," Kyle replies, gently touching his sister's cheek before starting off toward the stern of the ship. The best way to enter third-class territory was through the hallways. Everyone—at least mostly everyone—would be at dinner during this time, leaving Kyle undetected as he slipped down to D and E Deck.

Luckily, Kyle doesn't have to go too far. On the railing outside the third-class dining room, or at least what Kyle assumes is the dining room, Jonathan stands with his back to Kyle, smoking a cigarette. He wrinkles his nose and clears his throat. Smoking was definitely not the sort of thing he found attractive, even if almost everyone nowadays was doing it. Jonathan turns around quickly, shocked look on his face slowly fading into a more pleased, if not slightly surprised, one.

"Kyle," he acknowledges with a nod, taking another drag on his cigarette. "What brings you here?"

Kyle briefly wonders if it's weird to just tell him the truth, say he was intrigued at their meeting a few hours ago, before he comes right out with it and says, "You."

Jonathan doesn't seem surprised at his statement, just takes one last pull before flicking the cigarette off the railing and into the water. "So what does that mean, then?"

Kyle takes a deep breath and brushes his light brown hair off his forehead. Jonathan's eyes follow the movement. "It means… it means I want to get to know you better," he stammers. Jonathan smiles and steps forward, taking Kyle's hand in his.

"Are you sure that's _all_ you want to do?" he asks. _No_ Kyle wants to say, but he can't bring himself to utter those words. Being here is dangerous enough already; going along with Jonathan's suggestion would be like adding insult to injury.

"Isn't this dangerous?" Kyle says, looking everywhere but Jonathan's soulful eyes. There are only a few people on the decks and most of them are crewmen at their stations or patrolling the ship. "How do you even know that I _want_ what you're implying?"

Jonathan shrugs but doesn't back down. "Because you came back here. I'm not stupid, and neither are you. We felt what we felt, didn't we?" Kyle has no choice but to nod. By now the sun's nearly gone, just the top staying afloat in the endless ocean. Overhead the sky has turned navy, smokestacks brightly lit against the dark background.

"Then feel it," Jonathan says softly before he's gently gripping the back of Kyle's head and bringing him down for a kiss. For a few moments Kyle panics, wonders if there's anyone who might see them, before he relaxes into it, hands coming up to rest at Jonathan's waist before moving restlessly to his dark brown hair. Jonathan's lips taste like cigaratte smoke but his mouth takes sweet and inviting. Kyle makes a tiny noise in the back of his throat and presses closer.

They pull apart to breathe and Jonathan says, "Not so bad, was it?"

Kyle laughs before he leans in to steal another kiss once he's absolutely certain no one is looking their way. Who knows if Mother has someone out scouting for him. It wouldn't be the first time. "Yeah, definitely not."

Jonathan brushes a strand of Kyle's hair behind his ear. "Didn't think I'd ever meet a rebellious first-class boy. Or any boy, for that matter. People are much more open in Europe about that."

Kyle's eyebrows threaten to become one with his hairline when Jonathan says this. "And yet, here we are, heading back to America."

"Not by choice," Jonathan says. "You know what? Let's go dancing." The change of subject is abrupt and enthusiastic.

Kyle balks at this idea. He absolutely _does not_ dance. No way. Not even in his section of the ship. "No _way_, Jonathan. I cannot and will not dance."

"I'll bet you dance beautifully. I've heard that first class actually has some lovely dance parties."

"Not really—"

"Says the person who loathes first class," Jonathan interjects. Kyle sighs, knowing the other brunet has him there. "Alright, if you don't dance, what do you do?" Jonathan pries.

Kyle's lips curve up. "I've got an idea."


	3. Sailing Day, Morning Bright

So maybe sitting on the benches at the stern of the ship wasn't exciting or thrilling. The sun had long since set, and above them shone millions of tiny stars, white pinpricks of light against black velvet. The chilly air was bearable and the only thing to be heard was the sounds of water against the hull of the ship as it sped along the North Atlantic.

Jonathan was on his back, sprawled out across a bench, while Kyle opted to sit upright, head tilted against the backrest of the bench. As devil-may-care as he may be, Kyle still couldn't see lying across a potentially dirty bench and ruining his suit—Mother would throw him overboard for sure.

"It's so beautiful out here," Jonathan says after an expanse of silence. Kyle nods, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of salt. Underneath all the anger and bitterness he realized how lucky he truly was to be sailing on the world's finest luxury liner, how thousands of people only wished they could have scored a spot aboard.

The only problem was that the destination would inevitably take him back to Texas where he'd be forcibly thrown back into the family business, no matter how much he wants to run away. He wasn't sure where his mother would go once the divorce was finalized, and even though the two were almost always at odds she was still his mother and Kyle did love her.

"You know, I don't really know anything about you," Kyle says, turning to look at Jonathan.

"I'm not that interesting," Jonathan replies, still looking up at the sky. Kyle can't help but think that with a little sprucing up the third-class boy could easily be mistaken as the son of a millionaire or a wealthy young entrepreneur.

"I'm sure you are," Kyle presses.

Jonathan shakes his head. "Not compared to some of the other people you spend your time around, I'm sure."

Kyle sighs heavily. "Anyone other than those rich, pompous stiffs is interesting. At least in steerage you don't have eight different kinds of utensils."

"So you'd rather be with a bunch of rowdy, constantly-drunk Irishmen and various other immigrants that don't speak a lick of English?" Jonathan says skeptically, propping himself up to look at Kyle. The lighter brunet's hair looks almost white against the dark horizon.

Kyle doesn't hesitate to nod. "I can't imagine how much fun you must have down there—that's what being on a ship is supposed to be about, especially on a maiden voyage like this."

Jonathan looks directly into Kyle's eyes, keeping his gaze there so long Kyle shifts uncomfortably, unsure if he should be flattered or creeped out by Jonathan's rapt attention. "You really are like no one I've ever met," Jonathan finally says, a note of awe in his voice.

Kyle blushes and fiddles with his waistcoat. He wasn't sure why he was getting so nervous; Jonathan was, despite his charm and good looks, a third-class passenger. Kyle's mother had said right after they boarded the ship that first-class and third-class _never_ mixed. That's what Kyle was doing right now, blurring the lines, so to speak.

It just… feels weird for Kyle to do this. He's not used to defying his mother, defying everything she's raised him by. As much as he's yearned to be free he'd never before had the courage to do so. By meeting Jonathan, Kyle could feel his moorings start to break loose, bit by bit, strand by strand, and he'd never felt more _alive_.

Kyle fills the temporary gap of silence between the two. "In my twenty-five years of life I've never once broken a rule, never mind toed the line." He looks intently at Jonathan and the other boy sits up, intrigued. "Meeting you was the first step for that. I've already told you that I want to get away, start a new life where it's okay to be poor and live your dreams."

"Come with me," Jonathan says suddenly, reaching for Kyle. His hands grasp onto the rough wool of Kyle's waistcoat, knocking him slightly off-balance. The kiss Jonathan presses to his lips burns like fire and stings like ice. "When we get to New York. Please, come with me. We can go to California. Canada. Wherever you want to go, I'll go with you."

Kyle lets out a small gasp and pulls away, gripping into the fabric of Jonathan's thin shirt. "I—I don't know," he admits honestly, captivated by Jonathan's dark brown eyes. "That's such a big step, Jonathan. We just met."

He's ashamed to admit that while he wishes nothing more than to leave with Jonathan, he's absolutely terrified. Despite his rebellious side Kyle was brought up straight-laced, mindful of all the rules and their places in everyday life. He knew that, despite his balking against being the heir to the company, he'd eventually take it over, continue on as yet another Burns running the most successful oil company in the greater Southern area.

Jonathan was what Kyle dreamed of being: free and strong-willed, taking each day and the problems that come with it on with a sort of gusto rarely found in young, monetarily-challenged men. Kyle admired that, revered it, even.

"But you felt it," Jonathan replies, words urgent. His breath wisps in front of him as he speaks, small vapors of gray-white smoke curling and curving towards the endless heavens. "You know what you felt, Kyle. _I_ know." Kyle jerks away, suddenly nervous, and can only take in a few heaving breaths of air.

"I like you," Jonathan continues.

"But you barely know me."

"I know more about you than you think."

Kyle, still unsure, bites his lip and looks off into the still night. Jonathan sighs and takes his hand, saying, "We're on the _Titanic_. Why not do something completely crazy?" He presses lips soft as down against the back of Kyle's hand. The slighter brunet tries not to shudder at the feeling.

"Something crazy would be jumping off the ship, not running away together."

Seeing the despairing look on Jonathan's face makes Kyle sigh in resignation. "Jon, look—"

"Jonathan," the other boy quickly reprimands.

"Jonathan," Kyle says, "I do want to run away, and maybe if I get to know you better it won't be such a hard decision." He takes Jonathan's hands in his own, warming the slightly-cold fingertips with his palms. "Give me time."

Jonathan laughs slightly, though it's not as spirited as before. "You've got nothing but time. It's only the thirteenth. We're on the ship for awhile more. I'm not asking you to uproot your life for me, okay?"

Kyle frowns. "I feel like you are."

"That's not my intention," Jonathan pleads. "You are just so incredibly fascinating, Kyle. I'm captivated by you, in more ways than one. Is it so wrong for a man to be enthralled by another?"

"In most places, yes," Kyle replies, tone slightly scathing. "We are a minority, Jonathan. Pariahs in any social standing. No one must know what we do, or why we do it."

Kyle stands up, releasing Jonathan's hands as he does. He takes purposeful steps towards the railing of the ship and proceeds to lean against it, the bite of the chilled metal lessened under his wool overcoat. It only takes a few seconds before Jonathan's footsteps are heard behind him and he comes to stand beside Kyle.

"This is absurd," Kyle says, hair blowing about his face, tossed by a cold wind. His breath carries and disappears. He lowers his gaze down the side of the black-painted hull, watching the white caps of the waves lap and crash against the side of the ship. "I cannot even begin to fathom the consequences of being caught for our deeds."

Jonathan's voice is right next to Kyle's ear as he says, "Then don't get caught." He gently pries Kyle's hand from the railing, lacing their fingers together. "Live in the moment. Think of it: we're on a ship, thousands of miles from land with nothing but thousands of tons of iron keeping us afloat. What happens here will never be spoke of on land. That is, unless you wish to disembark with me." His eyes sparkle mischievously.

Kyle's eyes dart from their hands to Jonathan's eager face, looking so boyish under both the yellowish lights from the ship and the silvery light of the stars. Quickly checking to make sure no one is within seeing distance, Kyle leans in and closes the gap between them, pressing his lips to Jonathan's with a hungry desperation.

The noise Jonathan makes in the back of his throat stirs something primal inside Kyle, and he finds himself letting go, hands groping and touching, caressing and just _feeling_ as their kiss deepens. Kyle's not exactly sure who suggested a room first, but Kyle knows that his stateroom is completely out of the question. They both agree on Jonathan's steerage room.

Navigating the ship and its corridors proves to be somewhat of a hassle. Besides being unable to keep their hands off one another, they giggle like drunken schoolgirls down, down until they reach E Deck. It's late at night, some time past eleven or so, and by now most passengers will be asleep. Still, Kyle is cautious even when Jonathan gets the door open and they enter, shutting it behind them.

An air of awkwardness settles around them for a few, seemingly-everlasting seconds, and Jonathan makes the first move, stepping forward and running a hand through Kyle's hair. Their eyes lock for the briefest of seconds before Kyle's stepping forward, pressing their bodies and mouths together simultaneously.

Jonathan moans softly, taking Kyle's awkwardly-placed hand from his shoulder down to the waistband of his pants. Kyle takes the hint and moves down further, cupping the hot heat of Jonathan's cock through the material. This time Jonathan whines, the noise louder, and Kyle increases the pressure, moving his palm in slow, circular motions.

"Shit," Jonathan gasps, leaning his forehead against Kyle's. "Yes, please." He cants his hips up slightly into the weight of Kyle's palm, slipping the overcoat off Kyle's shoulders, giving him no choice but to step back and shrug it off.

No words are exchanged as they both undress, a light blush coloring Kyle's cheeks as he slips off his trousers and undergarments. "You're gorgeous," Jonathan murmurs, gently touching Kyle's cheek with his fingertips, running the backs of his fingers down the elegant, swanlike curve of Kyle's exposed neck.

They end up in Jonathan's bunk, the space confined and suffocating, but they're both so lost in each other that they don't notice anything but their scents, the way their skin feels together. Kyle closes his eyes against tears that still leak out when Jonathan slowly pushes in, comforted only by the older man's soothing, encouraging words and gentle touches as he slowly sheathes himself to the hilt.

Kyle's breathing is strained, back muscles taut as he adjusts to the sudden fullness and pressure. When he nods, Jonathan's first thrusts are slow, almost painfully so, and it's not until Kyle manages to somewhat lock his legs around Jonathan's waist that he speeds up. They're both careful to keep their noises down as they lose themselves in a wall of heated pleasure.

Kyle feels himself getting close, and he grabs the back of Jonathan's head to pull him down for a kiss, stroking himself with his other hand. When he feels that familiar tingling low in the pit of his stomach he arches up slightly, moaning into Jonathan's mouth as he releases over Jonathan's stomach and his own hand. Jonathan comes not long after with a soft, wavering cry of Kyle's name.

They curl up in the small bunk together, sated. Kyle rests his head on Jonathan's chest, eyes half-mast. Jonathan lazily cards his fingers through Kyle's hair. "I'm really glad we did that," Kyle says after awhile, not long before drowsiness threatens to overtake him.

Jonathan chuckles. "I am, too."

"I—I may consider your offer."

Jonathan raises an eyebrow. "'You may'?"

"Mhm," Kyle hums, already mostly asleep. "We'll just have to wait and see."

Jonathan watches as Kyle's eyes slip closed and his breathing evens out. He smiles softly as he says, "Yes, we will."


End file.
